


If the World Should Perish Twice

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>B_E kinkmeme prompt: “Doctor/Master, The Mind of Evil, missing scene with the Doctor tied up awaiting the Keller process." One of Two answers (this is The One With Sex). (a tidied old kinkmeme fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the World Should Perish Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Title: If the World Should Perish Twice  
> Author: [](http://x-los.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://x-los.livejournal.com/)**x_los**  
>  Rating: NC-17  
> Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master  
> Summary: B_E kinkmeme prompt: “Doctor/Master, The Mind of Evil, missing scene with the Doctor tied up awaiting the Keller process." One of Two answers (this is The One With Sex). (a tidied old kinkmeme fic)  
> Beta: [](http://elviaprose.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://elviaprose.livejournal.com/)**elviaprose**  
>  A/N: Original here: <http://community.livejournal.com/best_enemies/13938.html?thread=246130#t246130> .  
> Title inspired by Fire and Ice, by Robert Frost.
> 
> "Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice."
> 
>  
> 
> ***

The Master is flicking at the dials with exaggerated slow precision.

“Look—” The Doctor begins. The Master turns his head to look at him, his expression carefully neutral.

The Doctor swallows.

“Look. What would it take for you not to turn it on?”

The Master straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Quite a bit, I imagine. I rather had my hearts set on it.” Mock-invested, with a fair bit of give to his position. Good. The Doctor can work with that.

“What would you like, then?” The Doctor’s eyes narrow. The set of his jaw is as guarded as the prison was this morning, but the Master simply laughs at him, throwing his head back as far as he can without compromising his dignity.

“Oh _really_ Doctor. Do you imagine I’ll make demands, provide with you an opportunity to be entirely shocked? Every inch the reluctant innocent?” The Master scoffs, but as he speaks he moves to the door. A light push sends it swinging shut, and the Master turns the lock quite casually. “You’re a resourceful fellow, aren’t you? I hardly think you can’t come up with something I might find a suitable alternative to your suffering.” His eyes glitter, amusement and—

“Well.” The Doctor doesn’t try for an enticing tone, but then with the Master encouragement is hardly necessary. “Come here, then.”

The Master is again leaning over his chair, tense and waiting. The Doctor moves his head up towards him as much as his bound position comfortably allows. He closes his eyes. The Master pauses, right above his mouth. They’re breathing each other’s breath, and the Master’s savoring, or hesitating, or doing something the Doctor can’t even guess at, but then he’s taking, his mouth moving on the Doctor’s with gathering sureness and speed. The Doctor’s breath catches. The Master bites his lower lip quite gently.

“And the rest,” the Master says or asks, the Doctor can’t tell which, but he nods, and what the Master can easily remove with the cuffs still firmly, prudently on gets taken off and lands in some corner of the room with the muffled thump of fabric. The Doctor can’t tell which corner because his eyes are still closed. He hisses in a breath of air when the hand that’s been unbuttoning his shirt finds him beneath all his defenses, all the layers of fabric that usually protect him from the Master.

A single, slightly-shaking finger surveys the flesh between his stomach and his neck. The Doctor feels as if his skin and muscles split open under that delicate, knowing touch. His eyes open, and they’re already locked with those of the Master, who very deliberately moves in for another kiss. His hands are far from inactive. They’re under the jacket, gripping at the Doctor’s skin possessively. They’re kneading his exposed thighs, and making the Doctor achingly hard. It’s as if the Master wants everything, wants to do, to have, to see everything, wants it all so much that his desires trip each other up and he cannot devote his attention to attaining any single enjoyment.

The Doctor tells himself not to wonder if he could get away with not kissing the Master back, because he doesn’t want to have to decide that he has some moral obligation not to let his tongue slip into the Master’s mouth, some excellent reason not to follow when the Master pulls back, just a bit, as if to test that he will.

Still the hand between them, encircling him and beginning to move, startles the Doctor somewhat. The Master’s lips brush the Doctor’s neck, as if in reassurance, but then he seems to think the better of it because he’s sucking lightly, and then harder when the Doctor makes a noise of appreciation, and then, when the Doctor’s hips buck up under his hand, hard enough that it’ll certainly leave a mark the Doctor will have to hide under his high, ruffled collars for days.

He pulls back, and the Doctor’s eyes are closed again, but he can hear the noises of the Master undressing. When the Master comes back and resumes his old position, it slips naturally into a straddle. There’s skin against his, warm and comfortable, and the Doctor bites his lip because he’s wanted this, and were circumstances different, he might even have said so.

There’s a hand under his chin. The Master’s making sure the Doctor watches his eyes as he pours something over the Doctor’s lap. There’s such intense focus there, such _want_ that the Doctor can feel himself responding even more, as though he weren’t already too affected. Can feel himself getting hot under the strength of that _look_.

“You’re going to—” he starts in to break the silence, and also because he’s the one handcuffed, and he didn’t really expect the implied power dynamic not to mean something about who’d be doing what to who.

The Master laughs at him. “You’re handcuffed to a chair, Doctor.” He pats the Doctor’s cheek with the hand that’s not working in the oil. “Simple logistics.”

It doesn’t feel like simple logistics when the Master slides down around him, bending his knees to do it, bringing their chests and faces close. The Master shifts. Tries something, and the Doctor chokes a little in response. The Master smiles and does it again, rises and falls precisely, and the Doctor, face flushed, eyes wide, half laughs up at him, expression a little wondering.

“You’re awfully good at this,” he murmurs.

“Am I, Doctor?” The tone of the man smirking above him gives the impression of total self-contentment, it’s like a cat sunning itself put in words, and when does a cat need anyone’s validation? But the way the Master’s body clenches makes it clear that he couldn’t be more pleased. And in a few moments, “how good, exactly?”

The Doctor would find it rather embarrassing to go on about it. He blushes slightly and clears his throat, but then the Master’s moving faster and _better_ and it’s harder and harder for the Doctor to catch his breath. Slumping forward into his ear, slinking the words in between licks at his neck, the Master bites out a clipped “how _good?_ ”

It would be as unnatural not to cry out under him as it would be not to scream and curse under sudden pain. The Doctor babbles easily, no self-consciousness left, about perfect heat and how very achingly good his movements feel and how _fucking_ tight he is, getting obscene and tender, and he’s near and gasping and has to choke silent for a minute just to handle the sensation and breathe.

“Keep talking,” the Master hisses, and the Doctor begins again, says things he won’t remember after and things he _will_ , things he’ll later realize he really shouldn’t have shared. It’s not that he doesn’t mean them, but they’ll make facing the Master in future that much more awkward. Without prompting, he promises the Master things he can’t let himself deliver. He is compliant and unconditional as he comes. The Master keeps going when the Doctor’s finished, and it hurts just a little, and it’s good. The Master whimpers the Doctor’s name into his sweat-damp curls. They come down so slowly, the Master running his hands across the Doctor’s skin, across his still velvet-clad shoulders in dazed satisfaction.

“Excellent trade,” he jokes, and the Doctor laughs.  



End file.
